(Short Story and Poetry Categories)

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Poetry Category

ACM’s T.S. Eliot Award for 1st Place

Goes to Nancy Hance for The King’s Garden

ACM’s John Donne Award for 2nd Place

Goes to Sarah Andersen for My Name

ACM’s George Herbert Award for 3rd Place

Goes to Nancy Hance for Beneath the Robe of Righteousness

Honorable Mentions:

The Francis Thompson Award:  Kristina Benham for Purpose
The Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Award:   Stephen Kingsley for The Call to Worship

19 and up category

The Athanatos Christian Ministries C.S. Lewis Award (1st Prize)

Goes to Graham Kell for his story, Swimming Blind

Author of Hitler, the Holocaust, and the Bible, Joseph Keysor, is proud to sponsor the GK Chesterton Award (2nd Prize)

Which goes to Elizabeth Chance for her story, His Scars for Mine

Three Third Prizes- Presented in Alphabetical Order by Last Name

Athanatos Christian Ministries presents the Fyodor Dostoyevsky Award (3rd Prize)

To Derek Elkins for Theophany.

ChristianManuscriptSubmission presents the Leo Tolstoy Award (3rd Prize)

Which goes to Wallace Heller for Angel’s Mercy

An Anonymous Sponsor presents the George MacDonald Award (3rd prize)

Which goes to Katherine Thompson for They Left us the Moon.

Honorable Mentions

The Dante Award: Goes to Kathleen Moulton for Unfinished Bridges
The William Shakespeare Award: Goes to Sally Bishop for Shattered Neon

The John Wycliffe Award

Not given this year.

High School Category

The Athanatos Online Apologetics Academy JRR Tolkien Award (1st Prize)

Goes to Jennifer van den Bogerd for The Rain Sequence.

The Confident Christianity Dorothy Sayer’s Award (2nd Prize)

Goes to Caroline Carmichael for Belleau Wood.

Third Prizes- Presented in Alphabetical Order by Last Name

The John Milton Award (3rd Prize)

Goes to Rebecca Chance for The Dissenters.

The William Blake Award (3rd Prize)

Goes to Cody Milner for The Viking

The Sojourner Leatherwork Flannery O’Connor Award (3rd Prize)

Goes to Myra Stull for The  Cabin

Honorable Mentions

The Graham Greene Award: Goes to Meghan Gorecki – Thus Far .
The Charles Williams Award: Goes to Hannah Lowie - The Call .

To contact any of these authors for any reason you may request their contact information through the contest administrators at director@athanatosministries.org.  Most of them have indicated that they are available for interview.  Anthony Horvath, the executive director of Athanatos Christian Ministries, which is the host of the contest, is also available for interviews.

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If you come across one of these stories posted on the Internet apparently without permission and exceeding 150 words (without permission), please notify the author or the contest administrators at director@athanatosministries.org

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Goes to Sarah Andersen

Flagstaff, AZ

2nd Place

(Category: Poetry)

Bio:

Sarah Andersen grew up in Phoenix, Arizona until she was 19 when she moved to Texas for four years to participate in an internship with a ministry. She now lives in Flagstaff, Arizona where she is working on a Bachelors of Arts in Sociology and English at Northern Arizona University. When she is not reading for her classes, she likes to read anything written by Frank Peretti, Ted Dekker, Francine Rivers or a myriad of other authors.

You may contact  Sarah Andersen through the contest administrators by sending an email to director@athanatosministries.org.

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My Name

Hell

You’re all going to Hell

He screams in the middle of the campus

Dirty

Rotten

Sinners

The lot of you

Love only if

Salvation only by

Mercy only when

Hell

You’re all going to Hell

Tolerant

We all must be tolerant

They bellow from the pulpit

No right

No wrong

No constant

Needed for anyone

Everything is permissible

Except the Absolute

That cannot be allowed

Tolerant

We all must be tolerant

Separate

We must be separate

They demand behind the stained glass

No mingling

No contact

No open doors

To those not holy enough

Shhh! Don’t speak too loud

They may hear and come

Then where would our good name be?

Separate

We must be separate

So many voices

Crying out their message

Damnation

Relativism

Silence

Pointing fingers

Shifting like the sand

Disappearing under the steeple

So many voices

Drowning out the One they profess

Where is His name?

Where are His words?

Stilly

Softly

His defense still resounds

Hell

You were all going to Hell… Until

Tolerance

I tolerated your sin… Until

Separate

I remained separate… Until

My name

Holiness on Earth

Holiness took on Hell

Holiness took on sin

Holiness took on pain in silence

So you wouldn’t have to

My name

Holiness

I offer you holiness

But you won’t speak my name

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Goes to Nancy Hance

Monroe, NC

3rd Place

(Category: Poetry)

Bio:

From a very early age, Nancy had a connection with music. Standing on tiptoe to reach Grandma’s old piano keyboard, she picked out the melody to “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”, her favorite tune. As a young girl, Nancy learned that Jesus loved her and would always be with her. Baptized at the age of eleven, she always felt the Presence of the Lord in her life. She was blessed with piano lessons from the age of six and eventually won a two year piano scholarship at a Christian college. At age 15, Nancy’s musical horizons were broadened when her older sister taught her to play the flute.

It was while attending college that she learned that the Holy Spirit was still very involved in the lives of Christians and that He wanted to indwell each and every believer. From then on, music took on a new dimension…one of deep worship and high praise. Songs started being birthed and written down and sung at every opportunity. Almost forty years later, the catalogue of Spirit-birthed songs has continually grown and documents the life journey of this musician.

Nancy also works as a freelance writer contributing articles to women’s magazines and has written a book, “Flights Of Fancy” soon to be published. Dabbling in poetry seemed to be a natural progression and has been a hobby and enjoyment.

You may contact Nancy at nancyhance@gmail.com or through the contest administrators by sending an email to director@athanatosministries.org.

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BENEATH THE ROBE OF RIGHTEOUSNESS

Beneath the robe of righteousness

Made by the blood of the Lamb,

Under the Holy covering

My heart finds courage to stand.

Although my eyes grow weary with

The sight of my failings and sin,

God sees the blood of His only Son

And places His Spirit within.

His Spirit is like a refiner’s fire

That brings to the surface the dross

Where it meets its match and is done away

By the scarlet red robe of the cross.

Then like the sweet rain from heaven,

His word cleans my mind day by day

And bathes me with beautiful thoughts from God’s heart

And washes the darkness away.

And so by the mouth of three witnesses:

The Spirit, the water, the blood;

I stand clean and dressed and in my right mind,

Safe and secure in God’s love!

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Goes to Nancy Hance

Monroe, NC

1st Place

(Category: Poetry)

Bio:

From a very early age, Nancy had a connection with music. Standing on tiptoe to reach Grandma’s old piano keyboard, she picked out the melody to “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”, her favorite tune. As a young girl, Nancy learned that Jesus loved her and would always be with her. Baptized at the age of eleven, she always felt the Presence of the Lord in her life. She was blessed with piano lessons from the age of six and eventually won a two year piano scholarship at a Christian college. At age 15, Nancy’s musical horizons were broadened when her older sister taught her to play the flute.

It was while attending college that she learned that the Holy Spirit was still very involved in the lives of Christians and that He wanted to indwell each and every believer. From then on, music took on a new dimension…one of deep worship and high praise. Songs started being birthed and written down and sung at every opportunity. Almost forty years later, the catalogue of Spirit-birthed songs has continually grown and documents the life journey of this musician.

Nancy also works as a freelance writer contributing articles to women’s magazines and has written a book, “Flights Of Fancy” soon to be published. Dabbling in poetry seemed to be a natural progression and has been a hobby and enjoyment.

You may contact Nancy at nancyhance@gmail.com or through the contest administrators by sending an email to director@athanatosministries.org.

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The King’s Garden

(The Garden Enclosed)

Song of Solomon 4:12-16

A garden enclosed is My sister, My bride,

A fountain sealed up-all her water inside.

But I see her seedlings as plants fully grown-

An orchard of fruits and rare spices unknown.

Sometimes she sees rocky soil., sun parched and dry

And wonders at My love and often asks, “Why?”

But I want to show her the things I behold:

The beauty I’ve planted; the spring clear and cold.

The myrrh is her tears as in sorrow she cries.

She longs to be perfectly clean in My eyes.

The spikenard will cure her, the balsam will heal.

The comfort of aloes will soothe how she feels.

Her prayers are the frankincense burning so bright.

I show her the path as she walks through the night.

The henna’s a thankful heart worshipping Me.

The beauty of gratefulness in her I see.

Her hopes and her dreams are the calamus reed.

They fill up the air with the fragrance of need.

I’ll cut them and dry them and powder them soon

And use them to create a rare, rich perfume.

Her flavors are saffron and cinnamon sweet.

In her heart My peace and My righteousness meet.

I kiss her with mercy-embrace her with truth.

I give her My covering as Boaz did Ruth.

Come into Your garden, my Husband, my King.

Take pleasure in eating and drink from my spring.

My heart is Your garden, Your private retreat.

Come enter it now, let me sit at Your feet.

Awake now, O north wind and come now, O south.

Come blow on My garden so her fragrance flows out.

Spring up, sweet Spirit, pure water of life!

Refresh My princess, My sister, My wife.

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Flannery O’Connor Award

Goes to Myra Stull

St. Louis, MO

Third Place

(Category: High School)

Bio:

Myra Stull was born and raised in St. Louis, and has loved to write for as long as she can remember. Inspired by classics such as Les Miserables and short stories ranging from those by William Sydney Porter to Herman Melville, she is constantly pursuing her love for literature. She hopes to someday publish a collection of her own short stories.

She was homeschooled her entire life, and is entering her highschool sophomore year. Her hobbies include reading and baking, but she is also a passionate singer.

To contact Myra Stull you may request contact information through the contest administrators by sending an email to director@athanatosministries.org.

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The Cabin

by Myra Stull

Copyright 2010, All Rights Reserved

The Cabin

By Myra Stull

The cabin stood at the center of the forest, woebegone and forgotten to human eyes. Having been inhabited for the past several years by various foxes, birds and wildlife, it stood, barely recognizable as a place that had once been a building – a house. The roof had been destroyed during a recent storm, and the windows had long ago been relieved of their glass panes.

But it was still there. I stood in the clearing and looked longingly at the place that I had called home for one wonderful winter. Though plumbing, electricity, and heating weren’t among the things that formed my memories of that cabin, I could still say, quite assuredly, that it was there that I learned the most valuable lessons of my lifetime.

But it had all ended so quickly – the late nights by the crackling fire, the cozy and quiet afternoons, the hours of reading and writing – and suddenly I was thrust back into the world. Though alone again, I had not come away empty. They may have taken my home. My name. My very existence. But they couldn’t take my memories, and they lived with me through every storm life held.

They were memories of a woebegone cabin in the woods, which was the first place that I had ever called home, and a warmhearted woman, whom some called strange, but I simply learned to call Janie.

I was eleven years old. A nobody. A nothing. An orphan at best, but not even completely worthy of that title. I was just another piece of dust in the wind, another branch by the walkway, another cry among the thousands. I wasn’t heard and I wasn’t seen. No one cared if I lived or died, and though I had no compelling reason to be partial either way, I kept fighting through the empty winters, the scorching summers, hoping to someday escape from the never-ending circle of loneliness.

In the summer, I would creep up underneath the rich windows in town, after dark had fallen, and lie quietly in the grass listening to the conversations. I would hear of things that I barely knew existed. A wonderful, delicious thing called steak. Raved-over plush pillows. Shoes. Telephones. Families. Homes.

But I knew that they would never be mine.

So I continued walking. Continued wandering, searching for food, sleeping in the woods, and mingling with the other forgotten nobody orphans when I could, to save being picked up by the orphanage managers. But I never went back in with them at night. I would slip away and wander until exhaustion overtook me. Then I would turn my steps towards the dark of the woods, where the only thing that might recognize me were the squirrels and the deer.

But, one night as I entered the woods and lay my head on the forest floor, I heard a noise.

Branches cracked around me all the time, and I had learned to not only be immune to them, but to sleep through the loudest of forest noises. And yet this one was different.

When it didn’t come again, I finally fell asleep. Nightmares filled my dreams, as they often did, and I tossed and turned in the autumn leaves. Nearly every night I saw the same woman’s face in my mind, stooping, smiling, over me, to whisper in my ear.  But before I ever heard the gentle words she would speak, I was hurled out in the snow, and would wake up with my heart pounding.

This time, when I awoke, my heart beating out of my chest, I saw the light haze of morning wafting through the trees.  I sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, and trying not to listen to the horrible grinding of my stomach.

A branch broke again. It was a strange breaking that couldn’t be just a squirrel on a twig or a fox prowling the forest. It was heavier than that. In a frightened daze I realized that the snapping never stopped, and something or someone was shuffling through the woods towards me, for the noise became louder and louder.

Instead of fleeing, which is what my brain and limbs were telling me to do, I sat and watched. The strangest shape was making its way through the trees. Hunched over and wobbly, it came closer and closer.  As I began to make it out, I also began to listen to the nagging in my mind, and rose to my feet.

My back was turned to the figure, and I was just putting one foot in front of the other to run,

when I heard a cry.  Turning, I walked hesitantly forward, my heart pumping wildly. As I drew closer I saw a crude but well-crafted cane thrown to one side of the path and a little, rosy old woman lying on the walkway.

I helped her roughly to her feet, her eyes squinting in a smile the entire time. She pushed her glasses back on her nose and thanked me for the cane which I handed back to her.

She smiled at me. “That’s very sweet of you.” She nodded her old head, and I saw a perfectly coiled white bun resting in splendor on the top of her head. No one had ever called me sweet before. I didn’t know what to say.

Half of me was wondering why such a nice lady was out in the forest, falling over root and rock, while the other half of me was very glad that she was there. I was curious, and there was a feeling in me that I would gain nothing by running. This woman seemed different. She wasn’t here to catch me or to hurt me.

She stuck out a thin but healthy hand, still smiling, and said just two words. “I’m Janie.”

“Huh?”

I looked at her hand, but didn’t put mine out. My stomach growled.

“I imagine you’re hungry. That’s just why I fell, you see, I’ve been longing to have some company, and there you were, just waiting to be invited over. Are you hungry?”

I nodded, my eyes large in my head, and before I could protest, she had wrapped one arm around me and was leading me down the path. She was chirping quietly the whole time while I walked with her, the wind blowing through my threadbare clothing and my feet sore from the harsh ground.

“I’ll whip up something – no doubt Sandy’s let Penny in without my permission, and I’ll have to shoo her out of the chimney, but it won’t be hard to start up a fire. There, and I’ll put on the kettle, and it’ll screech in no time…”

Her high-pitched voice soared lightly up among the treetops as she led me farther into the forest, through parts into which I had been too frightened to venture. And yet they weren’t so frightening with this adorable old woman who called herself Janie.

Brushing aside a thick curtain of evergreen branches, we emerged in a little clearing in which stood a humble, one-room cabin.

As I approached the cabin with her, the door swung open.

“Sandy!”

A yellow Labrador, barking happily, ran out the door past me, and started racing in circles around the clearing. Once in the cabin, the old lady banged inside the fireplace and hollered up the chimney.  Eventually a beautiful parrot came flying out, only to land on the door handle so that the door could not be shut.

The animals almost made me laugh – something I hadn’t done in a very long time – and I stroked the soft feathers on Penny’s head, which she seemed to like very much. Her feathers were so delicate and plush, so soft compared to where I daily lived, slept, walked – what I daily touched.

I stood motionless, the door swinging slightly behind me, and the little lady blowing on the hot embers in front of me. A warm feeling came over me. I don’t believe the woman had stopped speaking since I first helped her up, and now she chattered on about nothing in particular, expecting no one to respond.

A rabbit sat in the corner of the room behind a rocking chair, and a kitten was curled up on the small bed in another corner. They were so calm and gentle.  Walking slowly over, I picked up the kitten in my arms. It slept on, purring quietly as I scratched behind its ears.

It was a heavenly sound.

Then the tea kettle began boiling, and in short order there were two pieces of cornbread and two steaming cups of tea on the rickety table in the center of the room before the fireplace.

“Well, now! Isn’t this a cheery feast?” She laughed and pushed the table towards the bed I was sitting on. She then pulled a stool up to the other side and took my free hand in hers. I bowed my head with her, but I didn’t exactly understand why.

“Thank you for the cornbread, the tea, and this lovely company,” she said happily, her eyes shut and her hand clamping mine. “Amen.”

Her eyes flew open and she grinned at me as she took the warm cup between her hands and breathed a sigh of relief.

“I still can’t decide if I’d rather have chamomile or green, but I do think this green is good. How about you?”

I shook my head, confused. How could she like green? All it was to me was the color of grass and summer leaves. “What’s chamomile?”

She seemed astonished that I could ask such a thing, but she didn’t try to explain. She leaned over the table and scratched the kitten’s head that I was holding.

“Have you ever slept on a mattress?”

“I’ve heard of them.” I said quickly. “I’ve heard they’re very nice.”

She nodded and urged me to drink up the tea and eat up the bread, although I didn’t need to be asked twice. “And a coat? Do you have one?”

“No.” I said between bites.

She had a perpetual grin on her face as she served me another piece of cornbread. It was the best thing I had ever eaten.

“Well, I have company, but until now it’s been nameless,” she said as she folded her hands and smiled at me across the table. “As you know, I’m Janie. And you?”

I swallowed and clutched the kitten tighter. Sighing, I hung my head quietly, feeling very small and inconsequential compared to this very kind Janie.

“I’m nobody.”

She didn’t gasp. She didn’t pity me. Her grin may have faded slightly, but not her happiness. She leaned over as if she were telling me a secret, even though we were in the middle of a cabin, in the middle of the woods, at least a mile from anyone’s hearing.

“Well, I’m nobody too,” she said joyfully in my ear. She leaned back over and patted the table. “But I figured that even nobodies have to have names. So I decided to keep Janie even when everything else got dropped, you know, so I’m not a complete nobody. I’m just Nobody Janie.”

“But, no one’s ever called me anything – I think. At least not anything nice.”

“Then you need a good name, for even that scatterbrained parrot has a name.”

Then, in a long gaze, Janie swept me up and down with her eyes, seeing the tangles, matted brown hair, the thin, spindly arms and legs, the bare feet, and the pale skin. She sighed and tapped the table.

“So my thinking goes like this – I hoped for a guest and here you are. I’m sure there are fancier names, but, I’m wondering, why don’t we call you Hope?”

When we were done with tea, she fixed up the most comfortable thing I had ever slept on, and I fell into the first peaceful sleep I had had for a very long time, content with a full stomach, a kitten curled up beside me, warm feet, and something that I had never had before – a name. Hope.

I said it over and over in my head the next morning, lying on the floor, warm and rested. Nothing inside of me wanted to leave, so I lay there wondering whether or not I should get up.

Someone was talking outside the door, and for a few minutes I thought that Janie was talking to herself. I lay there happily, trying to hear what she was saying. But my heart skipped a beat when a young man’s voice responded.

I heard only a few words, but just enough to make me afraid that someone had come to take me to the orphanage, once and for all.

“I can’t stall the new boss forever, Janie. I don’t mind ya’ here, but…”

Janie responded, but I couldn’t hear her. Her voice was so soft, like a bubbling brook in the springtime, and its faintness blended in with the rest of nature’s sounds.

“Just sayin’ – he’s bound to find out.”

I jumped up from the quilts, and ran to the one window at the back of the cabin, prying it open and preparing to flee through the woods.

Then I heard him mount his horse and gallop off. Letting my hands fall from the window, I breathed a sigh of relief.  Quickly, I dove back under the blankets, and that is how Janie found me when she swung open the door and heralded in the morning sunshine.

She was a spunky old lady, and for whatever reason the horseman had come, I didn’t worry about it for a second longer. For there was oatmeal over the fire, and the cabin was flooded with sunshine, and all seemed warm and safe.

We spent the day chatting as Janie measured, cut, and sat stitching in her rocking chair. She wouldn’t see me another minute in my threadbare clothes, and I made no attempt to object to something new. I never had extra clothes, only those that fit me at the time, and having just one new dress would be more than wonderful.

I could hardly stand still as Janie pinned and fitted.  And with Sandy’s bursting through the door at intervals to run around the both of us in a furry of golden hair, the work didn’t go any faster.

Janie gave me a bath that night by the fireside, scrubbing until it hurt. But for the first time in my life there wasn’t a speck of dirt anywhere on me. I went to bed “squeaky clean,” as Janie said, and that night the kitten, the rabbit, and Sandy joined me on the floor, and we slept soundly together, a comfortable warm mass of softness.

For several days, I spent my time being pricked and poked, until finally Janie slipped the most beautiful dress over my head.

I look back now and see that it was only a cotton dress, with no lace or trim, and only four small, brown buttons. But to my young eyes, this first new piece of clothing, hand-stitched by Janie, was the most beautiful thing that I had ever seen. It was more beautiful than any of the clothes hanging in the shop windows uptown.  That’s because it was mine.

Janie stood up and surveyed me with a contented air of accomplishment. “So what’s next, Hope?”

I shook my head. “What do you mean?”

“Now that you’ve got some proper clothing, I say we do something new to occupy us, since it appears that you plan on staying a while – to which I have no objections.” She laughed and headed towards the table where three books were sitting in a stack.  “How about reading?”

“I can’t read.” I said matter-of-factly, as I brushed down the front of my dress with pride, and felt the bumps of the braids that Janie had done wet the night before, tied with brown ribbons.

Straightening her glasses on her nose, and holding the first book up to her eyes, she squinted as she read the title. “Then I dare say we start.”

Within days I began to see the alien symbols becoming letters, which became words, which, in time became sentences. And to this day the best thing I have ever read were the first three words that I sounded out under Janie’s understanding teaching.

“In the beginning.”

On day eleven, when I could finally see those words clearly, I looked up at the old lady who was hovering above me.

“I suppose everything starts at the beginning, doesn’t’ it?”

“It does.”

“So is my beginning here?”

She laughed and hugged my shoulders. “No, Hope. Your beginning was a long time ago. Your beginning was as a baby, just like everyone else’s.”

I shook my head. “But I was.. …nobody. Back then I was just another thing with all the other things that fill the world. Couldn’t this be my beginning? I’d like to think that I became someone when I came here.”

Janie turned from me and I couldn’t see her face, but I saw her glasses in her left hand as it fell to her side, and she whispered under her breath. “And now you’re Hope.”

The horseman came back many times, but Janie always left me in the house, and I never dared ask who he was. In time, I think he figured out that I was there, but this didn’t bother him. I watched him through the crack in the door, and as the first flurries began to fall, I noticed that his face grew more tense, and his eyes bleaker. He didn’t laugh anymore, and he didn’t smile at Janie like he used to.

He came again, one last time, the day of the first big snow fall, and I heard him call something back to cheerful Janie as he rode off into the woods.

“He’s said many times – he’s making the rounds thoroughly in the spring. If I were you, I’d go while I could.”

“But where?” Janie said hopelessly.

He shook his head. “I can’t keep you safe forever. As far as he knows, well, you’re not here. But you’re out of a house and home if boss finds you.”

He galloped off and Janie shook her head, sighing. I went back to the cornbread that I was supposed to be learning to make, and as she walked through the door and shut it tightly, I noticed a limp in her step and a slight sense of fear about her. It was the saddest that I had ever seen her.

But the minute she saw me she brightened up. “Hope! How’s the bread?”

I admit, it wasn’t much to talk about, but Janie would have none of that. We ate it for lunch.

Every night I was warm, and every day I was well fed. If I didn’t know any better I would’ve thought that I was in Heaven. But the times when Janie dropped the cup and it shattered, or when I misread words, or poked my finger with the needle, or spilled the writing ink on the table, I knew that I wasn’t in heaven, just a place almost as nice. Just almost.

Twice while I was there, Janie went out for the day to town, bringing back baskets of food, but once we were snowed in there was no opening the door, much less leaving the cabin except to let Sandy out in the snow.

I learned to sew, to write, to read, to cook and bake over the winter months in that tiny cabin at the center of the forest. As the snow piled up in deep drifts and didn’t begin to melt for what seemed an eternity, I began to forget about the man on the horse. Janie didn’t speak of him, and we spent many more hours laughing and telling stories by the fireside than we did spending a second thinking of him. Or, at least I did.

I was to learn that Janie’s life was fading, and that soon her very existence would be nothing more than the empty cabin in the woods.

“Are you very old?” It came out of my mouth one night before I could stop it, and Janie laughed in glee.

“Not as old as I could be,” she answered finally. “But just to satisfy your curiosity, I’m at least seven times older than you are.”

For a while I counted on my fingers, then I puckered up and thought for a while, but I never really figured out how old she actually was. I was content to know that she was old – and why that brought contentment, I can’t say. Maybe it was just knowing that I could ask her anything and she would answer me, that really gave me comfort.

As the snow began dripping slowly from the branches, the memories of my nobody life were like distant dreams. The nightmares hadn’t come since I was with Janie, and I stopped wondering who the lady in my nightmare was. I know now that she was probably the only memory I had of my childhood before my life on the streets – but if my beginning was with Janie, then my childhood wasn’t important, because back then, I was a nobody.

Janie kissed me goodnight and she never thrust me out in the snow, so I didn’t worry that someone was going to come along who would. My faith was in this dear, old lady who fell one autumn day in the woods just so she could have a bit of company.

But the fluttering calendar soon said January, and Janie told me that we were in a new year. February slipped by, as did March. And one day, the snow was gone.

As the winter passed, Janie did less and less, and more days than not her white hair was about her shoulders and she laughed as she said that she didn’t want to put the effort into putting it up. I know now that it was just too painful for her to raise her arms long enough to wind the coil meticulously and pin it in place.

She relied on me to get water from the pump those early spring days, and she was quiet much more than she had been. She would look longingly out the window, and I heard her whispering on many occasions that this was her home, and it would be until she would cross the river to her final home.

I asked her who the horseman was. She said he was just a friend. That’s all. No more, no less.

But one early spring day, the young man came back.

Janie hobbled out the door as he dismounted. His face was solemn and almost fearsome.

“They’re coming tomorrow. I heard boss say so. They’re going over every foot of land – there’s no way he’ll miss a single bit of it like his dad did. His granddaddy may have let you live here, but I know boss, and he ain’t his granddaddy.”

“Oh, he might have a good heart,” Janie responded, wrapping her shawl more tightly around her shoulders and pushing her glasses up on her nose.

The young horseman shook his mop of dark brown hair. “I’ve seen him in a rage over just one cow of the neighbor’s being on his property. If he finds an old cabin and an inhabitant with it, you’ll be in for worse than the cow. But if you leave now, I might be able to work something out later and you can come back.”

Janie sighed. “I have nowhere to go. I have no one but Hope, and I certainly can’t pull her away just when she needs a home the most.”

The horseman pleaded. He begged with Janie, pacing back and forth on the thawing ground. But in the end, he mounted his horse and smiled dismally at her.

“I can’t say I didn’t try. If you’re here tomorrow, you may end up with no home at all, Janie.”

Janie shut the door tightly and melted up against the wall. She saw me, but that didn’t brighten her spirits. Her face was pale and her glasses were clutched tightly in her left hand. She shook her head and walked towards the bed.

“Put the kettle on, will you, Hope?” She breathed a long sigh and lay down on her back, staring up at the ceiling. “Jacob was a good man, he was. His son was a scatterbrain who let me live here rent free just because he was too lazy to figure out anything else. But his grandson…”

I fixed her tea as she spoke quietly to me, to herself, to the ceiling. The kitten had grown over the winter into a fine cat, and she climbed up my shoulders as I sat at the table and curled herself around, batting at my hair.

“His grandson is – oh, I don’t know, for I’ve never met him. But something tells me that his heart is a selfish one. My small patch of life has no meaning to him – not if it’s on his land.”

“What are we going to do?” I asked quietly, very confused and scared, but trying not to show it. I had been in worse situations as a nobody, and I had always made it through. But I was worried about Janie. I loved her – she was all that I cared about anymore.

Janie shook her head weakly. “I cannot move, Hope. I can’t go anywhere. You – you could go, but where?”

“You’re all I have.” I whispered. “If this is your home, then it is mine.”

A tear trickled down Janie’s face and she shut her eyes as the rabbit hopped up beside her. She let her hand fall to stroke the soft, white fur. She breathed slowly and silently and I sat waiting.

“I’ll pray,” she whispered finally. “I don’t know how he’ll miss this patch of land, but all I can do is pray that he does.”

I shook my head. “I don’t know how to pray.” I said quietly. “I’ve never.. really.. prayed before.”

Janie’s eyes flew open, and she sat up on the bed.  For a moment she was her old, spunky  self. “Then I believe it’s high time you do!” She shook her head smiling, “Praying isn’t hard. And I dare say you’ve heard me do it many times. Why, Dear, it’s your name in action.”

“My name? Hope?”

“Yes.” Janie breathed, lay down, and shut her eyes again. “Hope.”

I tiptoed quietly out the door into the clearing, knowing that the fresh air would calm me.

I had heard someone else pray once – besides Janie at the table – and it was an old man in one of the rich houses one summer. He spoke very quickly and he used a lot of long words that I supposed were only for the rich, because Janie never used them. I tried hard to remember what he had said.

“Oh…” I breathed, trying to remember the “gracious Heavenly Father,” part. But I couldn’t, so I let that part go and just said, Father.

I was standing on the edge of the woods then, in the twilight, looking back at the place where I had found my life. I was pacing back and forth hoping that my prayer wasn’t too shoddy, for even though I didn’t understand a lot of what Janie said, I did understand that the next day someone would come to make us move out unless we prayed that he didn’t.

And Janie was right, praying was easy.

So after praying very, very hard that he wouldn’t come, I said Amen, like Jane did, and went back to the house. Janie’s eyes were still shut, and I believed she was asleep. What I didn’t realize was how fervently her prayers were rising from that old, faithful heart.

I fell asleep that night, hoping very hard, and never once giving up those hopes. But I slept poorly. I tossed and turned, and the nightmare came back. The woman’s face was almost there with the precious whisper when she thrust me out in the snow, and I woke up with my heart pounding.

Janie was asleep, so I crept towards the door, dragging my quilt behind me. I opened the latch – which was never locked – and breathed a sigh of relief when I felt the cool, fresh air rushing in. It had taken some getting used to sleeping in a room, and deep down inside I was happy once again to be out in the open at night.

Sandy had come out with me, and she was all play and no sleep as I tried to curl up on the ground by the cabin in the clearing. I shushed her, patting the ground to get her to sit; I did everything to quiet her, but she just ran in circles all the more. She kept me up for a long time, running down her energy, until finally she quieted and we fell asleep in a warm heap by the door.

I felt the sun in my eyes before I heard Sandy barking. I rolled over in the dirt, pulling the quilt over my head and not wanting to wake up. But I couldn’t escape it. So I pried my eyes open, but gasped and began  scrambling when my ears caught the noise of a party on horses, before my eyes saw the men.

“We’ll circle ’round left, boss.” It was that same voice – that horseman. Our horseman. But a fierce one responded, and I was too frightened to move.

“No – I say we turn right, so we turn right.” He growled. “Come on boys!”

The evergreen branches parted before I could get to my feet, and seven horses stopped dead in their tracks. The fierce voice laughed aloud.

“A cabin! Who in tarnation?” The horses circled the cabin, and soon I was looking at the front legs of a perky chestnut mare. Our horseman was with them, but he didn’t breath a word.

“Who are you?” The man on the mare leaned out of his saddle and made a hideous face at me. His face was scarred and worn, and several teeth were either chipped or gone.  His breath smelled of whiskey. “You’re an orphan.” He said, answering his own question. “Just like the two boys I found at the edge of my property with the cows this morning.”

He laughed an evil laugh as I shook my head. “I’m Hope!” I cried desperately. “I’m not an orphan.”

“Got any parents?”

I slowly shook my head and he laughed again.

“Then you’re a low-down orphan, trespassing on my property. Get her on the horse, boys. We’ll take her to the orphanage.”

But the door of the cabin swung open and I had faith as Janie weakly hobbled out to face the seven horses and their riders. She didn’t look terrified, as I most surely did, with two hands of steel clamped on my arms. She pushed her glasses up her nose and smiled at our horseman.

“Good morning,” she said brightly. The horsemen were stumped. Even the fierce one had to catch his flying thoughts. But when he caught them, there was no loosing them again.

“What!” He breathed in disbelief. “This your cabin?”

Janie nodded, smiling steadily at me. I was frightened, but as she smiled at me I began to hope that everything would be okay.

The fierce one looked around slowly, and his eyes narrowed. “Get a move on it, Boys.” He nodded towards me. “Take her, Bill.”

“’Kay, Boss.”

The man, who apparently was Bill, lifted me roughly onto the horse. Our horseman began to speak, but boss made a movement towards his belt, and he was silent. Janie put out a loving hand.

“But that’s Hope! She’s not an orphan.”

“Isn’t she?” Boss mocked. “You never had kids, Janie. You and I both know that.” Suddenly this fierce man seemed to remember exactly who Janie was. “She’s an orphan, and she’s going back right where she came from.”

Bill turned his horse, and began to head out of the clearing. The tears were streaming down my face and I was fighting to get out of Bill’s grip, but his hands were too strong. I twisted my head back and saw the smiling, weak form of Janie standing in front of our cabin. She waved a hand.

“I love you,” she called. It was the first time she had told me that. She had done everything to prove that it was true – but that spring morning I knew that she truly did.

Bill dropped me off a short time later in front of the brick building. I tried to run, but he grabbed my arm and marched me inside. I was fighting with all I had.

“Who are you?” a tall lady behind the desk asked.

“I’m Hope!” I cried. “I live with Janie!”

I saw Bill shake his head, and the spindly lady took my arm from Bill.  “Who’s Janie?”

My mouth was open, but it only proved to let the tears fall in. I couldn’t speak. “She’s nobody.” I whispered. “Nobody but ….”

“But?” I was being led down a corridor into a dim and crowded room with dozens of beds lined up on either side.

“But mine,” I whispered, choking on my tears. “We were nobodies together.”
The lady pulled out a paper and started writing on it as she scanned me up and down with her laser eyes. “Short, relatively healthy…” She said to herself as she wrote. “What’d you say your name was?”

“Hope.” I whispered with my eyes closed.

“No, your name.”

“Hope!” I shouted.

She shook her head pitifully, as if I was crazy. “Of course everybody here is hopeful Deary, but I just need your name.”

The tears were so heavy in my eyes that the lady was just a blur before me. I leaned up against the wall and dropped my head in my hands. I didn’t respond.

She took the paper and muttered to herself. “Another nobody.” And she walked from the room and shut the door behind her.

But I knew that I wasn’t a nobody anymore. I was a nobody with a name, and when you have a name, you are somebody.

And I was Hope.
I was transferred to an orphanage in the neighboring town, and I lived there for four years, no one daring to adopt me, as I was cruel and threatening to every set of parents that I met. I didn’t want parents – I wanted Janie. I ran away when I was sixteen, and by then looked old enough so that no one threatened to carry me back to the brick building.

Stepping outside of the orphanage gates was heavenly. Running down the sidewalk I felt the wind in my hair and watched the sun peek up over the horizon. It was autumn again, just like the one years ago when I found myself taken in by a lovely old lady. I was making my way through the waking town, towards the one neighboring that I had known so well in my childhood.

Some time later, I began to recognize my surroundings and I retraced my steps to the woods, praying, as Janie had taught me, that she would still be there. But as I stepped through the clearing I saw the woebegone cabin, roofless and shattered. I called for Sandy, but she wasn’t there. The rabbit, the kitten, the parrot – they were all gone.

And so was Janie. I stood stunned in the wind, which had turned cold. The tears were trapped somewhere inside me and I was too hurt to let them out.

We’d prayed that Janie could stay in her cabin. Why hadn’t God heard?

A horse galloped up behind me and I watched as a man dismounted. It was our horseman, a few years older – though still very young – and a little more solemn. He looked at me in surprise as he stopped in his tracks on his way to the cabin.

“What are you doing here?” he said quickly, taking a step back towards his horse. I shrugged my shoulders listlessly, though I knew very well why I was there, and tried to speak past the lump in my throat.

“I’m visiting my home.” I said quietly. “I’m Hope.”

He smiled as I said that and walked towards me. On the way he kicked up a piece of rotten roof and watched it fly off into the woods. “I remember you.”

“You too.” I responded, walking around the cabin.

There was no use re-hashing. No use blaming him for my being taken back to the orphanage – it would only make a fight and I had enough enemies as it was. He wasn’t to blame anyway.

There was still something I wanted to know, though. But before I could ask he began speaking again.

“I loved this old place. The little fireplace. Sandy and the parrot. The way she made tea every morning and night.”

I jerked my head up. “How do you know?”

He sighed. “About nine years ago Janie found me, just like she found you. I was eleven. My daddy worked for Boss’s daddy. But I was a lonely kid – my Mom had died. No siblings.”

The horseman seemed unable to go on. He let his head fall back and he gazed up at the dark, foreboding sky.

“I came over here every day for two years. Every day. That’s why I had to do what I did.”

I shook my head, not understanding. “What’d you do?”

He let out a laugh, but it wasn’t one of happiness. “I’ll tell you what I did – I made sure Janie lived in her cabin as long as she needed to. Sure, Boss fired me. But I paid the rent that Janie couldn’t pay, and I came over every day. Just like the old times.”

The tears started coming then, in a rushing, pitiful stream that ran down my face. “Thank you.” I said quietly between sobs. And in my heart I knew that my childhood prayers hadn’t gone unanswered.

We left the cabin behind us that day. Chad helped me mount the horse and we rode off through the woods together, leaving our childhood home in the middle of the forest, where it could sit at rest until the last board of the last wall melted back to the dust from which it had come.

Janie had given both of us the greatest gift of our lifetimes.

Hope.

So, when our first daughter was born we picked a wildflower from the graveyard and set it up by her crib, remembering the name Janie and how wonderful it would be to speak it again.

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William Blake Award

goes to

Cody Milner

Reydon, OK

Third Place

(category:  High School)

Bio:

Cody Milner was born and raised in Western Oklahoma. He has been homeschooled for nine years, and recently graduated from Junior High. Cody has enjoyed writing since age 10. A few years later, he was introduced to the Lord of the Rings, Narnia, The Door Within, and Inheritance Series. Now he recognizes the immediate need for good Christian fiction. For the past three years, Cody has written historical fiction and Christan fantasy novels.

To contact Cody Milner you may request his contact information through the contest administrators by sending an email to director@athanatosministries.org.

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The Young Viking

By: Cody Milner

Copyright 2010, All Rights Reserved

Ships sliding onto the beach……tall warriors charging the village……screams of women and children as the bloodthirsty raiders demolished the Gaelic settlement….. Joran the chieftain hopelessly battling the enemy in the bloody mist…….smoke rising from the burning village.

Scenes from the previous day flashed through Matthias’s head as the unconscious lad lay on the hard wooden deck. Suddenly, he woke up, feeling lightheaded and nauseated. Blood had run down in the hollow of his right eye, drying and making it hard to hold open.

As he staggered unsteadily to his feet on the rolling ship, it all came back. Vikings had attacked the small village on Beårnaraigh, one of the isles of the Hebrides. His father, Joran, king of the island, had fallen trying to buy time for his people to escape to safety. Matthias had paused in his flight to watch his father‘s battle, when suddenly something smashed into his head and knocked him unconscious.

As Matthias’s vision cleared, he saw the shores of Beårnaraigh swiftly falling behind them as the longship quickly left the area of its recent raid. Beside the young man was a double row of heavyset men with flowing blond hair. Norse. Matthias thought with a sinking heart. I am a prisoner.

The lad rushed to the stern to leap in the sea and swim away, but realized that his feet were tied together so that he could only take short steps. The rowers noticed his predicament and began laughing.

“Only one place to go boy, the bottom!” one of them called in a thick northern accent.

Matthias reluctantly lowered himself to the deck and sat with his back to the bulkhead. The stories he had heard about the vikings cruelty to their prisoners flashed through his throbbing head. Some were said to be offered as sacrifices to the false Norse gods. Others were said to be put through all types of torture so that the false priests could supposedly look into the future. Which will happen to me? wondered Matthias.

Gingerly, he placed a hand over the deep axe-wound in his head. Whatever happens, it can’t feel too much worse than the agony I’m going through now.

The young man scooped up a handful of saltwater from over the side of the ship and washed the dried blood out of his right eye. The stinging salt brought his wandering mind back into context. Matthias stood up and viewed his surroundings.

The ship he was on was a large viking longship, with a crew of about forty vikings. A large, gold-gilded dragons head adorned the prow. The ship crested the white-capped waves with great speed, as did the five other similar ships it was sailing alongside of.

The vikings rowing this particular had ship stripped off their armor and weapons and deposited them under the planks which served as seats. There were ten oars on each side, with two vikings on each oar. A navigator stood at the carved stern, keeping a steady hand on the tiller.

At the front of the ship sat a young man about Matthias’s age. He still wore his knee length shirt of chain-mail, and carried at his side both a broadsword and a long knife known as a seax.

Matthias sat back down in his place, and soon fell into a fitful sleep.

The sun had passed its zenith when the Gaelic lad re-awoke. The fleet of viking ships were floating calmly on the open sea while the crews took a meal and slight rest. While Matthias had slept, Beårnaraigh had already faded out of sight.

Seeing his prisoner awake again, the young man who seemed to be the captain of this ship strode to the stern and sat beside him.

“Welcome to my ship, Master Scot. I trust you will find your stay comfortable.” The viking’s voice carried little Norse accent when he spoke in Gaelic, but his voice was heavy with sarcasm. “I am Bjørn Thorsanson. My father has said you will be my personal slave. What is your name?”

“Matthias. W-who is your father?” Matthias stammered, slightly taken aback by the boldness of the young Viking.

“Thorsan the Seaking, the Terror of the Waves, leader of the Vikings from Cimbria. He sails in the ship over there,” Bjørn pointed, “the Great Serpent. He gave me command of this ship, the Diamond Sword, and told me I could take the prisoner from this raid for my personal attendant. You are a native of Bjarnaray, I suppose?”

Matthias had recovered his coolness by now.

“No, I come from Beårnaraigh, where you captured me.”

“Oh,” the viking laughed, “my father named that island Bjarnaray, which is Bjørn’s Island in my language.”

Rage filled Matthias. The naming of his beloved island after some viking boy seemed unfair and cruel. After a moment, he calmed himself to listen to what Bjørn was saying.

“You don’t need to worry too much about your slavery. It won’t be too harsh. Mainly, I would like someone to keep me company while we are sailing. Leif over there,” he nodded at the steersman, “is always too busy to talk with me, and the others aren’t of high blood.” He eyed Matthias curiously. “Are you?”

Color flew to Matthias’s cheeks.

“Yes, I am!” he snapped, leaping to his feet. The other vikings, used to squabbles, did not pay the two young men any attention. “My father was king of Beårnaraigh! And a much better fighter than your vikings were! It took ten of you to kill him!”

Laughing merrily, Bjørn rose to his feet.

“By Thor, that axe wound has not slowed you down much! I think that you will do nicely for me. Do you know how to play chess?”

Matthias, worn out by his angry tirade, meekly answered that he did. Bjørn strode to the prow and soon returned with a checkered board and hand carved pieces. Matthias slowly set up and played the game, but his heart was not in it. For the moment, his thoughts were centered on his mother, two younger brothers, and baby sister. Had they all survived the attack and reached the fortress in the mountains? Or were they dead on the beach, or lying in one of the other ships.

Matthias stayed up all night praying, praying to the God of his father.

Lord, I know that I do not serve you as I should, but please make sure that my family is safe. Amen.

As Matthias and Bjørn played chess the following day, the Gaelic voiced a question that had been nagging him.

“You live to the north. So why are we going south?”

Bjørn moved a rook, which was fashioned to look like a longship, before answering.

“Do you think we would return after raiding one poor village? We go now to Iona. You have heard of that, have you not?”

Of course Matthias had. Iona, the monastery of the great warrior-monk, Columba. Iona, the wonder of the world for its great knowledge and wealth. Iona, where Joran, his father, had studied under the monks before returning to Beårnaraigh to become king. Matthias had dreamed all his life of going to Iona; but not this way! Not as part of a raiding band of vikings.

“Tonight we will stop on the northern tip of Tyrvist.” continued Bjørn.

There was a name Matthias recognized. It was the Norse name for Tiree, a large island about forty miles southeast of Beårnaraigh, and less than twenty miles north of Iona. Matthias shivered at the thought. Tomorrow night, he would be watching Iona being attacked.

Matthias moved one of his bishops, or ‘priests’ as Bjørn called them. Bjørn quickly related by moving a knight, or ‘jarl’ forward to threaten the bishop. Matthias smiled slightly. Bjørn’s king was hemmed in by its own pawns. A rook shot across the board, trapping the king in checkmate.

Bjørn laughed. “It looks as though I got a bit cocky that time. You did well.”

The two young men stood up and watched the approaching shore of Tiree. The difference in them was great, one a dark-headed, serious minded Gaelic; the other a fair-haired Viking with laughing blue eyes and a merry attitude. Nature demanded that these two be mortal enemies, but Matthias couldn’t help but feel a slight feeling of friendship toward the other.

Bjørn began talking again with his usual random statements.

“This is my second voyage, but the first to command a ship. I remember that we came to Tyrvist before and sacked a village on the northern end. That is probably where we are going tonight.”

Matthias’s feelings of friendship vanished, and he felt slightly sick. Joran was a great Christian, and had raised his children to be lovers of peace. The young viking talking about the destruction of an entire village as if it was an everyday thing made the Gaelic lad quite queasy. He decided not to say anything else until they were ashore.

“Why?”

Matthias was swathed in a heavy cloak and lying between the roots of a huge oak staring at the twinkling stars. Beside him, Bjørn was playing a soft tune on a small flute-like instrument.

“Why what?” Bjørn’s gentle voice came back to him after the song ended.

Startled, Matthias sat up. He hadn’t realized that he was thinking out loud. But now that he had started, he might as well finish.

“Why can you Norse not live like other people, farming or trading or hunting, living in peace?”

Bjørn sat upright with a sigh. There was some time before he answered.

“I do not know, Matthias.” he said softly, almost sadly. Intrigued by the strange tone, Matthias darted a glance and found the young viking with a bowed head.

“I almost wish that we could.” Bjørn went on. “I do not know if every viking feels as I do, deep inside; or if I am a throwback. But I do almost wish that we could live in peace. Many times I have promised myself that I would never fight again. But every time I hear ‘Go A-viking!’ I forget my promise and draw my sword again.” He raised his head and stared at his servant. Matthias noticed with shock that his blue eyes had no trace of laughter in them, rather they seemed to be mourning. “At one time, it was necessary for the Norse to raid. You see, Matthias, our land is far too rocky and cold to farm well. So we began to raid other countries so we could get food to survive. But now we are prosperous, there is no need to raid. I do not know why we continue to. Perhaps because the gods are always at war, and we feel as though we should be, too.”

Matthias shook his head slowly.

“That makes no sense. Why must you fight simply because your false gods fight?”

Bjørn’s head snapped back up.

“Oh, you are one of those Christians.”

If I could only be sure of that. Matthias thought. But he swallowed his misgivings and spoke.

“Yes, I am. I believe in a God that is the true God. He wished that we live in peace.”

“I know, I know. Another of our servants is a Christian. By Thor, you have strange teachings! One God, three forms, a God that died, and a God that doesn’t even demand sacrifices.” Bjørn laughed scornfully.

“Yes, our God does demand sacrifices!” burst Matthias. “But no sacrifice on earth was good enough to please Him. So He sent His only son to die as a sacrifice, so we would never have to sacrifice again!”

Bjørn stared at him in amazement.

“He……sacrificed…. His son? That was an amazing thing to do!”

“Not only that, but after three days, the son came back to life!” Matthias stumbled on, excited to share the gospel with this strange raider. “He also said that whoever believed in him would receive the Holy Spirit, and would live with him forever after they died!”

Bjørn was silent for a moment, running the sagas of his gods through his mind. Finally he shook his head in bewilderment and muttered,

“None of the Asas ever did anything like that.” The viking lumbered to his feet.

“I must think about this. I will return in a moment.” he told Matthias.

The Gaelic native watched his companion stride off towards the main camp, no doubt to find out when they would leave in the morning. Other vikings were huddled about heaping bonfires, playing different rough games, mainly dice.

Bjørn paused for a moment at one of the fires and commented to a player in their own heavy language. A roar of laughter went up from the vikings, evidently finding the remark hilarious. Bjørn turned away and continued his walk. As Matthias watched, the insulted player silently rose to his feet, and drew a slim throwing knife from his belt. When he took aim at the young raider’s back, Matthias realized in horror what was about to happen. A single glance told him that none of the other vikings had noticed the assassin draw his blade. The viking drew his arm back, ready to throw.

Time seemed to slow as Matthias ripped off the cloak and hurled himself forward screaming.

“Bjørn! Duck!”

Matthias threw himself at the burly viking, knocking the knife out of his hand. With a quick movement, he twisted the sword arm behind the viking’s back, popping it out of place with a quick yank. Then he wrapped both arms around the raider’s throat, trying to choke him into submission.

A scream of pain sounded, then a strong hand grabbed Matthias’s shoulder, and yanked him off of the viking’s back. The Gaelic lad hit the ground in a rib-cracking fall. He rolled over in agony as the viking awkwardly drew his sword with his left hand.

A commanding voice bellowed out an order, and a dozen other men leaped up and restrained the viking from stabbing Matthias.

Bjørn hurried quickly to his servant lying on the ground. His voice cracked as he spoke, showing his concern.

“Matthias, are you alright?”

“My side….” Matthias moaned.

Bjørn lightly touched Matthias’s left side. The slave cried out in pain. The young viking commander called out orders, and Matthias was gently carried back to the oak tree.

After the carriers left, Bjørn crouched at Matthias’s side again.

“A man who knows how to treat wounds is coming.” he whispered.

Matthias nodded slightly. There was a moment of silence, and Matthias began wondering if he was going to die that night. Then Bjørn spoke again.

“Why did you do it?”

“Wh-what?”

“Your are my slave. I have been mean to you. I have made fun of your religion. You have every reason to hate me. Why did you save me?”

Matthias forced himself to speak through the pain.

“Jesus, th-the son of God, once said that a man could have no more love, than to lay down his life for his friend.”

If the Gaelic slave had not been in so much pain, he would have seen tears glistening in the Norseman’s eyes.

“A friend…no greater love…lay down his life….for a friend.” Bjørn muttered to himself. After the camp was silent and everyone else asleep, Bjørn began sobbing openly for his friend’s pain.

Matthias awoke on board the Diamond Sword, lying on a pallet at the stern. Bjørn was sitting nearby, honing the edges of the swords, knives, and axes of the crew. Matthias was surprised to see that it was late in the afternoon.

As he sat up, Bjørn noticed that he was awake.

“Matthias,” he exclaimed, rising to his feet, “you must stay still!”

Matthias laughed for the first time since he had been captured. It felt good to laugh, and he laughed again.

“I feel good.” he said to the young viking. “Shall I help you?”

The two sat cross-legged on the deck, sharpening weapons.

Bjørn averted his eyes from those of Matthias, as if in shame. Finally, he spoke.

“You know what these will be used for, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do,” Matthias replied, “but Jesus, the son of God, told his followers that slaves should be subject to their masters, so I won’t attempt to talk you out of this.” The young Gaelic cut his brown eyes across to meet the blue eyes of his friend. “He also said for soldiers to be contented with what they had, and not to take money by force.”

Bjørn’s head dropped and he continue to slowly sharpen the axe he was holding. The rest of the voyage passed between them in silence.

Towards nightfall, the six ships slipped into a bay on the northern side of Iona. No one was allowed to go on shore, and a strict guard was set over the crews.

I must warn the monks at the monastery! thought Matthias frantically. But how? As always, he was sleeping beside Bjørn. Any move he would make would wake the viking up! Then there were the two guards with bows and arrows. How was he to leave the ship without attracting their attention?

Matthias worked himself into a sweat trying to get away to warn the monks. Every time he began to move, Bjørn would stopped snoring, or one of the guards would see him and nock an arrow. Just before midnight, he gave up the idea and tried to sleep.

Suddenly, Bjørn rolled over and muttered under his breath,

“The guard changes at midnight. Go then.” Immediately after he said this, he rolled back over and feigned sleep again.

In a few moments, the two guards went to the prow and shook two other vikings awake to take over the guard. While they were bending over the new guards, Matthias rose to his feet and slipped into the water silently.

Matthias had been raised on the coast of Beårnaraigh, and had been able to swim as long as he could remember. He held himself against the hard side of the longship for a moment while taking his bearings, then took a long breath and struck out for shore.

In his mind, he visualized what ships he was swimming under. Unfortunately for him, the Diamond Sword was the farthest from shore, and the Gaelic lad was forced to swim under the five other ships to reach the beach.

Matthias’s lungs were burning for air long before he had reached the sandy beach.

Get air, get air! one side of his mind screamed, while the other side reasoned desperately, Not here! Guards will see you and shoot you!

Closing his eyes, Matthias tried to remember where he was. As near as he could guess, he was more than halfway to the shore, near the Great Serpent.

He opened his eyes again and tried to swim forward, but found that he scarcely had the strength to continue moving. His limbs felt like lead, powerless to move at all. No! cried his brain. Keep moving! You must! Keep moving!

Mind and body were at conflict, one demanding to go on, and the other yelling to go up. Gradually, Matthias’s sense began to fade. No! Stay awake! screamed his brain. But Matthias was beyond consciousness, and but dimly felt himself floating upward, towards the surface of the water, towards a quick death.

Suddenly, Matthias’s head grated on some hard surface. Out of instinct, he reached out and propelled himself past the object and towards air.

With a blast of coldness, he broke through the water and into the cool, delicious air. Matthias sucked in several long breathes before realizing that he didn’t have an arrow in his back.

Treading water, the Gaelic boy turned around to a hard shock. He had come up right beside the Great Serpent!

The deck creaked just a few feet above his head. Matthias risked a quick glance upwards, which told him that there was a viking standing directly above him, scanning the watery surface of the bay anxiously.

Matthias’s heart was pounding so hard that he thought it would wake up every viking in the Hebrides. Finally, the guard moved away, and the young man was able to relax.

Matthias glanced away with a long sigh. He was now only about fifty yards from the shore, a simple swim for such a swimmer as himself.

“Sanctuary!”

The heavy wind which was blowing the dark rain clouds closer, ever closer, tore Matthias’s cry from his lips. No one came to answer the large door of the world-renowned monastery. Doubtlessly, all the brothers had retired to bed, having no idea of the carnage which was waiting them on the morrow. Matthias broke a large branch off a nearby tree and began beating on the brass-studded door, alternately yelling ‘Sanctuary!’ in order to rouse the gatekeeper.

A small window high above the door opened and a voice called out,

“Who goes, that rouses God’s holy monks from their well-needed slumber?”

Matthias dropped the branch and stepped back so he could see the silhouette of the monk in the window.

“I am Matthias, son of Joran of Beårnaraigh, and I come with important news!” he called up to the holy brother.

“Give me a moment.” came the answer before the window was shut again.

Matthias shivered in the cold north wind as the monk began unfastening the bolt.

Matthias darted inside the monastery as soon as the door creaked open. The monk, a short man with twinkling eyes slammed the door shut and shivered.

“Pacatis.” Matthias returned the greeting for peace. Before he could tell his story, the monk continued talking.

“It is quite cold tonight, is it not! I am called Brother Bartholomew, the gatekeeper. I was an old friend of your father while he studied here. Come in, come in!”

The bubbling little monk led Matthias into a side room where a large fire burned in the fireplace.

“Now,” he said, once he had put Matthias in a chair with food before him, “what is your news?”

Matthias took a deep breath, then began his tale. The cheerful monk turned quite grave as the story unfolded.

“So there are at least several hundred vikings?” Matthias nodded, and Brother Bartholomew leaped up.

“I must go tell the holy father immediately!”

“Wait!” called Matthias before the monk charged off down the corridor. “I must go back to the fleet!”

Brother Bartholomew halted quickly and came back.

“My son, why in the world would you go back there?”

“My friend, Bjørn, he will be in trouble if it is found that he let me escape and warn you.”

“Your friend?” the monk’s tone was shocked, to say the least. “A viking, as a friend?”

Matthias squirmed guilty in his chair.

“Well, yes, it is a long story.” he finally said after a moment of silence. Brother Bartholomew smiled.

“Yes.” he said softly. “I understand. I had a friend like that once.” The faraway, sad look in his eyes surprised Matthias.

“What happened?” he whispered.

“He died, a pagan.” Brother Bartholomew looked unhappily at Matthias. “That is why I came here to be a monk.” Suddenly, he started back to life.

“But come. We must get you back to the ships.”

The monk slid the bolt back, allowing Matthias to leave again.

“Peace be with you!” the brother called after the retreating youth. Matthias turned to reply the same, but the door was already shut.

After a few moments, the dark clouds began to drop their wet load, soaking everything over the entire isles. Matthias had no problems returning to the Diamond Sword.

Thorsan the Warlord was a fierce looking warrior. Just after daybreak, he led vikings off of his ship to form battle array on the still-soggy beach. The leader of the fleet was clad in a long hauberk made of iron mixed with silver and gold. His fancy helmet was covered in interweaving bands of gold engraved into the steel.

Matthias helped Bjørn struggle into similar armor.

“I have thought about your words, and I am not going to fight today.” the young viking had confided to his friend earlier that morning, “But I must still lead my warriors.”

As the slave buckled on the belts with the different weapons on them onto his master, Bjørn asked him,

“What weapon do you wish to carry?”

The question caught Matthias off guard. He straightened up quickly and faced the raider.

“I told you, I am against fighting.”

Bjørn blew out a long, exasperated breath.

“Yes, yes, I know, but you must come with me. You do not have to fight, just come. That is one of the duties of an attendant.”

Matthias quickly shrugged into one of Bjørn’s spare shirts of mail and set a conical helmet on his head. He grabbed a long spear and buckled a seax at his side. God forbid that I ever have to use these!

Finally, the crews of all six ships were on the beach and ready to fight. Thorsan bellowed an order, and the small army started forward.

Matthias marched alongside of Bjørn, nervously glancing at the huge vikings on every side of him. What if the monks weren’t ready to repel the assault? What if they were not strong enough, even if they were ready? That didn’t even bear thinking about.

The mile to the monastery was covered swiftly. The fighting force stopped just behind the final hill while Thorsan gave out his orders in the brutal Norse language.

The army spread out until it was in the shape of a half circle around the radius of the monastery.

Matthias crawled up the slope of the hill beside Bjørn. The Gaelic lad could tell that his master was becoming excited, in spite of himself.

Then the army was on the summit of the hill. As one, the vikings leaped up and begin roaring out all sorts of barbaric warcries and screaming ‘A-vikiiinnnnnnnnngg!’

The Norse raiders charged down upon the monastery. In the daylight, Matthias realized how much the building looked liked a castle.

The ranks of vikings slit open and two score carrying a freshly cut battering ram charged at the gates. Suddenly, a rain of arrows came from the windows of the monastery and felled half of the vikings on the ram.

“Saint Columba!” the cry went up from the monks inside. Volley after volley of the barbed death flew down to slay the vikings. In vain did the raiders plant scaling ladders, in vain were the grappling hooks thrown over the wall. Every attack was repulsed with a great loss of the Norsemen.

The battle raged on for most of the day. Finally, Thorsan ordered a retreat. The vikings fell back in disarray to the boats.

After raging about for an hour, Thorsan ordered camp to be made on the beach.

“He won’t rest until Iona has been breached.” Bjørn told Matthias as they were taking their armor off.

“That may be a while if it continues like it did today.”

As they two young men relaxed over a short game of chess, Thorsan and a seer called Lélanin strode through the camp towards them. They halted before Matthias and two guards yank the Gaelic lad upright. Lélanin peered into Matthias’s face for a moment before turning to Thorsan and saying something in the Norse language. Thorsan appeared satisfied and went off to attend other matters in his army. At a word from Lélanin, the guards forced Matthias towards an ash tree, where they tied him and left him.

Bjørn sprang towards his slave after the guards left.

“Oh, Matthias!” the terror in his voice struck a cord deep in Matthias’s heart, “Oh, Matthias, they intend to sacrifice you to Tyr, the god of war, to help win the battle!”

“Sacrifice….” Matthias’s voice trailed off, but his mind kept working.

Be sacrificed to a false god? No, Lord, no! Please, do not let that happen! Please, Lord Jesus!

All of a sudden, the young man was overwhelmed. Everything that had happened in the last five days fell onto his mind, crushing down his thoughts until he collapsed into unconsciousness.

“Wake up!”

Bjørn’s whisper was urgent. Matthias slowly raised his groggy head. It was in the middle of the night, and the viking camp was sleeping. Bjørn made sure that his slave was awake, then sliced the bonds with his seax. With a cry of delight on his lips, Matthias fell forwards and began earnestly chaffing his numb wrists.

“Quiet!” muttered Bjørn. “Come with me!”

The young Gaelic slave rose to his feet and followed the fair-headed viking around the slumbering raiders and out of the camp. He did not notice Leif, the old steersman of the Diamond Sword following them.

Bjørn went several hundred yards out into the woods that lay beside the camp, then turned and headed towards the beach. A small, canoe-like boat was drawn up on the beach, with two pairs of oars and a bag of provisions inside.

“Climb in.” muttered Bjørn. Matthias obeyed although he was mystified. He seated himself in the stern, and picked up a pair of oars.

Leif materialized out of the gloom, and Matthias stifled a scream at being discovered. But it soon became evident that the old viking was part of the plot.

Bjørn said a few words in the Norse language to Leif, then embraced the old man. Leif patted him on the shoulder, then shoved the boat off the shore once Bjørn had climbed inside.

The two young men banked the boat about and began rowing away from the island. After they were sufficiently away not to be heard from the island, Matthias asked,

“What will Leif do?”

There was almost a chuckle in Bjørn’s voice when he spoke.

“When the guards find out that you have escaped, Leif will come stumbling into camp claiming that you have escaped and I am chasing you around the island. He will then lead my father on a wild chase around Iona.”

Matthias laughed, which sounded strange and out of place at the time. Then he thought of something else.

“Where did you get this boat?”

There was a moment of hesitation before Bjørn spoke.

“I went into the monastery.”

Matthias gasped. This viking, his master, had risked his life just for Matthias?

“You what?”

“I climbed over the wall and met someone named Bartholomew. When I mentioned that you were in danger, he told where to find the boat to save you.”

Thank you, Lord.

“Why did you save me?” persisted Matthias. Bjørn swiveled around and looked at his slave, a crooked smile on his lips.

“You said that the Lord said, ‘No greater love has a man than to die for his friends.”

Matthias’s heart thrummed excitedly. Had Bjørn actually decided to forgo being a viking lord?

“Where are we going?” Matthias asked.

“To Beårnaraigh. To our home.”

The viking and native islander floated in the warm sunlight halfway inbetween Tiree and Beårnaraigh.

“And so, Jesus called the blind man to his side and said, ‘Your faith has made you well’. Immediately, the blind man could see again!”

“That is amazing!”

“Aye.”

The two men basked idly in the sunlight. In the last two days of fleeing Iona, they had spoken much of the Scriptures and of Matthias’s faith.

“Matthias….”

Matthias sat up.

“Yes?”

“I-I want to believe in your god. Is that alright..”

Matthias’s heart sung with praises to the Lord.

“Alright? Bjørn, that is wonderful! I have been praying for this!” Matthias bowed his head suddenly and said a prayer.

Lord, thank you so much for allowing Bjørn to come to you. And thank you also for letting me share the good news with him, for it has made my faith firmer as well. I now see that everything had a purpose. Amen.

He looked back up at the Norseman, grinning broadly.

Bjørn smiled weakly. This was the greatest, and hardest, decision of his life, Matthias decided.

“Tyr will hate me from now on, and so will Odin and Thor. So I may as well follow your religion and see if it’s the real way.”

“You will not be disappointed, I promise you that!” Matthias said joyfully.

There was silence again for a moment. Then a hoarse yell brought both young men to their feet.

“What is it?” muttered Bjørn to his companion. Matthias, shading his eyes, could see better than the viking.

“It is the ships!” Matthias screamed in horror. The two men grabbed the oars and began rowing away to the North, towards Beårnaraigh.

The ships came, one by one, over the edge of the horizon, sails flapping in the wind, oars hurling them through the water, the glistening dragonheads shining in the morning sunlight. It would have been an almost spectacular sight, had not Matthias known that they were coming for him.

Soon his breath was coming hard, but he couldn’t slow down.

After a grueling hour’s chase, Bjørn and Matthias were forced to stop.

“Should we just give up?” asked Matthias, worried for his friend’s life. “I mean, you would not be in danger that way.”

“Actually, I would be in trouble; but do not fear, I will never give you up.” His back straightened and he pointed. Some five miles to the northwest was a dim haze on the horizon. An island!

The boys began rowing again, but the ships were still gaining on the small canoe. Bjørn sighed deeply.

“There is only one way left.” He turned to Matthias. “When the Great Serpent comes alongside us, keep rowing.”

Bjørn had taught Matthias many Norse words while on their escape, and now Matthias hear Lélanin behind them yelling,

“Praise Thor and Tyr! We have caught them!”

The Great Serpent was almost on top of the canoe when Bjørn stood up.

“Save your voice, old man!” he yelled to Lélanin. “You should be giving praises to the real God!”

With that, he swung his small, heavy, waraxe at the planks of the Great Serpent. Once, twice, thrice; then suddenly a board snapped and water poured into longship. Bjørn dropped back into a sitting position and screamed desperately,

“Row!”

Matthias bent into the shove, lungs heaving like bellows. Water churned around his oars, making it difficult to retract them for the next sweep, but

Matthias’s muscles surged and he propelled the boat onward stroke after stroke.

After some two hundred yards, his heavy breathing and sore hands forced him to slow down slightly.

Behind him, he heard the snapping of wooden planks as water cascaded into the doomed Great Serpent.

Bjørn halted for a moment, and glanced behind him to the drowning ship that had been his father’s.

Matthias could tell what he was thinking, ‘I have shattered my last tie with the vikings.‘ Reaching forward, he patted the golden-headed youth reassuringly.

“Let us go to my home.”

“Our home.” corrected Bjørn, but his voice was sad and listless as he stared at the place where his father had drowned.

The rest of the journey to the island was completed without mishap; though it was night when the small boat finally reached their destination.

Matthias flung himself on shore, thankful to finally be back on his native ground. Bjørn hauled the boat up onto the beach so it would not float away.

“Are you sure that this is Beårnaraigh?” Bjørn asked. Matthias smiled to himself. Ever since the escape and time that Bjørn’s heart had begun to turn, he had referred to Matthias’s home as Beårnaraigh instead of Bjarnaray.

“Oh, aye, it is.” the former viking said as he caught sight of a rune-engraved pillar embedded near the shoreline. Bjørn

peered briefly at the words which spelled ‘Bjørn’s Island’. Then he uprooted the stone slap and cast it into the dying tide.

“For now, and for evermore, this will be Beårnaraigh.” He cast a sly glance at his friend, his old sense of humor coming back. “Beårnaraigh, the home of the Saint Matthias.”

Laughing, Matthias chased the young Norseman through the charred remains of the burnt village.

“Halt, viking!” rang out a voice high above them. Bjørn was not fast enough to obey the command, and the muted note of a bow spoke high on the hill.

Time slowed as Matthias saw the Gaelic arrow hurtling down towards the former viking. He hurled himself through the ground separating them to stand in front of Bjørn.

“No!-”

A burning pain smashed into his chest! Agony burned his chest and he grappled for air, then fell to the ground.

Bjørn was right beside him tearfully yelling at him,

“No Matthias! You can’t!”

There was a snapping in the undergrowth, and a tall man with a bow leaped into the clearing with an arrow on the string. Through the pain, Matthias rolled over and screamed,

“No, Uncle Jornæn! He is-” he was seized with a sudden pain and it was a moment before he spoke again. “Uncle, he is my friend!”

Joran, the chieftain, hobbled into the burnt village; head and side bandaged. Seeing his son lying on the ground, he broke into a stumbling run.

“Matthias!”

The old man fell on the ground beside the younger man. Matthias was having spasms of shaking, as the effects of the arrow destroyed his body, but he gasped out

“Father!Y-you’re safe!” He fell into a fit of coughing, but struggled to say one last thing.

“Father, this is B-Bjørn. He wants to become a Christian. Father, all these things happened so he would come to the Lord!” The young Gaelic man was seized with a further spasm as his body deteriorated further.

Joran, realizing that his son’s spirit almost was gone, leaned forward and whispered,

“Son, do you see Him?”

Matthias began to relax as his soul left this world.

“Aye! He has come! And Father, it is wonderful……”

Bjørn slowly got to his feet as Joran sobbed over his son. Finally, the old man rose to his feet and embraced Bjørn.

“The Scriptures say that all things work together for good to them that love the Lord.” The Gaelic chieftain looked carefully at Bjørn’s dry-eyed face. “Do not think that this, though a blow at the time, is bad. This is rather a double blessing. You have come and made the greatest decision of your life, the decision to follow the true God. And Matthias has gone to be with the Lord. Do not fear, he is in a much better place. He will meet us on that final day, when the trumpet sounds, and we are raised. The day upon which there will be no sadness……”

The early morning sun rose and shed its rays on the former viking sitting at the feet of an old islander, receiving the Good News. It was a beautiful dawn to be saved on. A beautiful dawn. A beautiful day. A beautiful eternity of love for God.

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John Milton Award

goes to

Rebecca Chance

Warner Robbins, GA

Third Place

(Category:  High School)

Bio:

Rebecca Chance was homeschooled from first grade until high school, when she entered Wynfield Christian Academy. She is graduating this year as Valedictorian of her class. She loves acting and writing and someday hopes to publish her own book series. This year she will be entering Macon State College where she hopes to earn a degree in Digital Media, and work in the film industry after graduating.

To contact Rebecca Chance you may request her contact information through the contest administrators by sending an email to director@athanatosministries.org.

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Important Copyright Information

SCROLL DOWN TO READ THE STORY

THE DISSENTERS

by Rebecca Chance

Copyright 2010, All Rights Reserved

He entered the lobby with an air of uncertainty. This was the largest church he had ever visited and there was a strange feeling in the atmosphere, but he was unable to determine the cause of it. The sign outside had read “The Fellowship”; that name sounded pleasant and inviting.

As he entered the doors to the main lobby, he immediately was greeted by two handsomely dressed men and the overwhelming smell of freshly brewed coffee. He glanced to his left, to find the source of the smell, and saw a small cafe selling coffee and hot chocolate. Though the invitation was enticing because of the cool weather, he declined the temptation and walked straight toward the sanctuary doors.

On either side of the lobby were other kiosks in addition to the coffee shop. A small book store caught his attention. Posted in one of the windows of the store was a poster that advertised a local rock concert to be held that upcoming weekend. He huffed softly and headed straight into the sanctuary.

Many people greeted him warmly as he entered the large room. He smiled back at them and took the bulletin that he was offered. The first thing he noticed upon entering the sanctuary was the carpet—something that normally would not interest him, but this case was a peculiarity. The room was divided into five sections, each one designated by a different color carpet.

He excused this from his thoughts for the moment and purposed to find a place to sit.

An usher appeared as if from thin air and smiled warmly at him, “Good morning, sir. Do you need help finding a seat?”

“Actually, yes.” The man looked to his right and left.

“What color do you like to sit in?”

The man stared back at him, struggling to reply, “Um . . .” He cleared his throat. “Does the color of carpet honestly matter?” The usher gave him a startled look.

“Most certainly, sir!” He replied quickly, “We want everyone to be comfortable here so that’s why we have different sections.”

“Why?” The usher appeared even more confused.

“Why what?”

“Why does it matter if people do not like the carpet?”

The usher cleared his throat nervously, “Sir, please. This is rather important for the Fellowship. See, the church nearly split a few years ago because there was a dissention because of the colors.”

The word “dissention” sparked the man’s interest, “Oh, I am dreadfully sorry then. Well, I suppose I will sit in the red section.”

“Very well then.” The usher led him to an empty seat in the red section of the church, then left him.

He sat down and read the bulletin he had received upon entering the room. Noticing that the pastor’s sermon had been outlined for the congregation to read, he glanced over it and shook his head. The things they say these days . . . I am embarrassed they call themselves leaders of the church, he thought.

Sighing softly, he began to look around the room. After he estimated that the sanctuary had nearly 3,000 seats in it, he began to inspect them with much curiosity. When he had first sat down he noted that the chairs were unlike anything he had ever witnessed in a church before. They were very plush and had double armrests between each pair. In addition, each seat had a cup holder. Because of the coffee shop, I suppose. . . .

It was nearly time for the service to begin now. Half a dozen people were on the stage area at the front of the room. The man guessed correctly that they composed the worship band of the church. One man, who appeared to be in his mid-thirties and wore jeans and a plain t-shirt, seemed to be in charge of the others.

Just before the band started, a young lady came and sat down next to him. He smiled politely at her, “Good morning.”

“Morning.” She replied softly. She seemed to be studying him, trying to recognize him. He decided to help her out a bit.

“I’m a visitor here today. First time visitor.”

“Oh!” the young lady offered her hand to him and smiled, “welcome to the Fellowship!” He smiled and shook her hand. She had such a sweet spirit around her that he could not help but smile.

“Thank you, miss—”

“Jessica Wood. You can call me Jessie. And you are?”

“Matthew.” He nodded once. “Simply Matthew, if you please.”

“All right, Matthew.” He noticed that she was blushing slightly and he did his best to suppress a chuckle. He had received responses like that at every church he went to. Normally, before the service had begun, he would have drawn the attention of multiple young ladies; something that he ignored and rather wished did not happen. He was not there to gain attention; he had another purpose in mind.

She was staring at him now. Clearing his throat once, he turned and looked at the stage once again. The band members were all in their places. Along with the leader who seemed to also play guitar, there was an electric guitarist, two more vocalists, a keyboardist, and a drummer. Seems like a normal contemporary band, he thought without much concern.

He shivered, still feeling her gaze. “Miss Jessica, if you continue to stare, I might be required to move.” He glanced at her and witnessed her turning bright red.

“I uh—” She was stuttering, ashamed that he had noticed. “I was just wondering if you’re from around here—”

“No, I am not.” He nodded once. Once again, he was used to responses like this. Most people thought he was Middle Eastern because of his tanned complexion, shining black hair, and deep brown eyes, but he was not.

“O-oh.” Jessica quickly turned her attention to the stage as the band began.

To Matthew’s surprise, the band opened the service by playing one of the top rock songs of the century. He hid his shock well, as he always did when he experienced such things at church. During the repulsive song, he turned his thoughts to other things.

He noticed a baptistery built into the front of the room, but the lights around it were dark and a banner was obscuring one side of it. Quietly, Matthew leaned back over to Jessica to ask about the abandoned fixture.

“Is that the baptistery?”

“Yes, but we don’t use it anymore.” Jessica nodded. “There hasn’t been any use for it for the past year or so. We don’t really believe that baptizing is necessary here.”

“I see.” Matthew asked another question, “Does anyone mind that you do not baptize?”

“No, not at all. Everyone’s really happy about it actually. See, it’s lowered the water bills so,” She shrugged, “not a big deal.” Matthew sighed and began to look around the room.

People mulled about at each entrance. They walked in and out as if they were at a movie theatre and this was merely the commercials before the show. In fact, the atmosphere of the room felt very much like a show. People ate concessions and sat in cushioned seats with plenty of elbow room so as to not bother their neighbors.

After the band finished the song, Matthew drew his attention back to the stage as the pastor began some announcements. The pastor was young, rather attractive, and wore clothing similar to that of the music leader.

“Good morning. Welcome to The Fellowship. We hope you will have an awesome day with us.”

Jessica leaned over and whispered, “This is our new pastor, Brother Richard.”

“‘New’ pastor?” He had heard rumors of what had happened to the last pastor and decided now was a good time to ask about the truth. “I heard that your last pastor left.”

“More like ‘kicked out.’” Jessica huffed in reply, “He was a radical—really weird ideas. People felt really uncomfortable when he preached so the people petitioned against him and the deacons fired him.” Matthew’s ears perked up at the word “radical.”

“I heard that he just preached the Bible though . . . what is so ‘weird’ about that?”

“He told people that they were going to hell if they didn’t repent. Heh. No one wants to hear junk like that anymore. And he refused to stop talking like that—so he’s gone.”

“Well, if that is what your ‘old’ preacher was like . . .” He looked up at the stage at the pastor and nodded towards the man. “What is he like?”

“Oh, Brother Richard is wonderful.” Jessica’s eyes lit up and she smiled beautifully. “He makes us all feel so loved and special. I can’t imagine what we’d be like without him. You know, since he came here, we’ve had so many visitors. And our membership has almost doubled!”

“Indeed. Impressive.” Matthew leaned away from her, expecting to end the conversation, but Jessica continued.

“I know you’ll just love him too.” Matthew glanced at her with an emotionless look. She continued smiling and turned back to look at the stage.

The pastor was just finishing up the announcements, “In the grand lobby we have refreshments, as most of you already know. The coffee shop will be open during the entire service and afterwards. Feel free to come and go as you need to. Also, remember to throw away any trash; please, do not leave it on the ground. This is God’s house so we want to keep it clean.” Matthew scoffed aloud but no one seemed to notice him. There is so much irony in that statement though these people probably believe it.

Heaving a sigh, Matthew shook his head. What has this world done with the truth? They are killing it! Just then, he heard the band start playing again. This time, they played a relatively Christian song and the congregation was prompted to stand and sing along. He stood, but did not sing. Instead, he looked around the room, sensing the spirit of the room changing.

People had their hands lifted in praise, they sang with all their hearts. Some swayed back and forth with the rhythm of the music while others kneeled down in honor of the One they claimed to worship and adore.

Counterfeit Christians, he thought, feeling pain in his heart. Everyone appeared happy, but Matthew could feel no joy in the entire room. There was a depressing feeling that threatened to suck the life out of him. It made him want to cry.

Suddenly, he realized something and tapped Jessica on the shoulder, “Miss, why are there no children here?” She smiled politely and waved with her hand towards the back of the room.

“They built a special building for the kids where they can play during the services. See, they were upsetting some of the older adults so we all figured it’d be better for them to just not be here.”

“Ah. . . .” As the song ended, he sat down with the rest of the congregation and turned his attention, once again, back to the stage. It was time for the pastor to preach now. Pastor Richard stepped up to the microphone and sat down on a stool provided for his comfort.

Matthew listened for awhile, but once the room was still, his mind wandered. Normally, he would pay attention to the sermon, but now he knew enough about Richard to realize that he was a hireling—someone who did not truly care for the eternal aspects of the lost; only what people thought of him.

Slowly closing his eyes, Matthew began to change his perspective from the physical to the spiritual aspects of this church, since that was what he had been sent to do. When he opened his eyes, he saw in shades of red and green. No longer did he see people by their physical appearance; he saw them in their spiritual light.

Shapeless forms floated where each person stood. Their spirits were lighter than the air surrounding them. Matthew’s heart sank in his chest when he realized how few green lights he saw. The spirits were mostly deep red or even black. The small few that were green were dark green, showing that these Christians had fallen away from the truth and cared not for what was holy. The red spirits were the ones damned to hell. Most of the spirits were still, appearing dead because of their apathy. Some of them were hollow and searching, their edges twitching nervously.

Matthew swallowed tightly. When he looked at himself, he saw a glowing, light blue spirit; a stark contrast to the darkness of the room. This explains the depression I feel. . . . Above and below him there were shadows formed by the darkness the room sheltered.

Now, for this acclaimed pastor . . . what does he— Matthew faltered as he stared at the pastor in this new light. A dark shadow hovered over the pastor. It was a horrid shape that clung desperately to the lost man’s spirit. The powerful demon stood his ground while its multiple arms flailed in an invisible wind gust. Two piercing eyes looked around nervously at the crowd. Ah, there you are . . . I knew I would find you—and I suppose you know I am here as well.

Slowly, the demon glanced over the crowd then froze, its eyes locking on the lone, blue spirit. Matthew took a quick breath, readying himself for whatever would happen next. A grin spread across the beast’s face.

“Well, well, isn’t this a change in the atmosphere.” It breathed out a sulfuric gasp.

“Indeed.” Matthew replied; both of their voices unheard in the physical realm. “Let me guess . . . Dissention? I’d recognize your stench anywhere.”

“Aw, I’m flattered. But rumors spread quickly, no? Or did you figure that out yourself, genius.” Matthew did not reply, but his spirit stood. No human could see him moving, only others in the spiritual realm. He walked straight up to the front of the room and hovered over the stage, eye to eye with the demon. The demon, Dissention, crawled upwards, still clinging to the captive spirit of the pastor. “Like my work here? It’s taken awhile thanks to that jerk your group planted here two decades ago.”

“I admit you have been busy. Your work can be seen across the entire world.”

“Mmhmm. My Prince has widened my land; broadened my horizons. My lust for control is growing still.”

“Predictable.” Matthew reached for his glowing sword that lay sheathed on his back. Just as his fingers brushed the hilt, fear flashed in Dissention’s eyes.

“Y-you can’t win them back though. Just look at all I’ve done.” The demon waved one of his slimy arms, pointing throughout the sanctuary at other dark figures like himself. There were dozens of demons covering every entrance and exit, waiting to get their claws into a human spirit.

“It took you long enough to show your ugly face here. I wondered if you had forgotten . . . or were scared”

Dissention shivered as he looked back up at Matthew. He spat a black, sulfuric cloud, “Hell’s taking it’s time—this is a huge country founded on principles from ‘your side.’ Naturally, I sent some friends ahead to lighten the load. These people would have refused me if I just showed up in all my glory. But do you honestly think that would keep me away from this great land? There’s so much good potential here that some doubted we could ever make things change in our favor, but this country is far too important to pass up.”

“You are correct when you say that this land is far too important to pass up.” Matthew drew his sword, “Hence the reason I am here.”

The demon raised a hand quickly as if to block a blow from the angel’s sword, “W-wait! Did you happen to notice the sign outside?”

“’The Fellowship’—I noticed it.” This small statement brought a smile to Dissention’s gruesome face.

“This used to be First Fellowship Church, but there were complaints and people urged the church office to change the name. You know, the word ‘church’ is offensive now-a-days. Also, all the crosses are gone. Those are offensive too.” Matthew remained silent so as to not encourage the demon’s egotistical monologue. “Also, notice the times and dates for these services? Wednesday nights have been canceled—more of my handiwork, that is. And I’ve guaranteed all of these naïve humans that the services will be one hour—exactly.” Dissention stroked the pastor’s spirit with one of his black claws. “I’ve gotten him to preach for just twenty-five minutes a service. He’s trained well and the people love him!” He laughed then became instantly silent as Matthew raised his sword.

“If I was not under specific directions from my leader I could . . . and would . . . extinguish the problems of this church.”

“Luckily for me then that your side is losing,” the demon chuckled nervously.

“A delayed victory is not a defeat, but is a greater triumph in the end.”

“Yes, but . . .” Dissention growled, a grin slowly forming on his ugly face, “for now, we are winning. This country has invited us here, with their sin and we’re taking over. They’ve damned themselves. They don’t want God anymore, so it’s our turn. Sin without conviction is what they’ve ordered, so we are merely here to deliver that. Before they even realize what’s happening, we will have taken over and unless there are major changes, they’ll have ruined their chances of escaping hell’s wrath.”

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Dorothy Sayer’s Award

to

Caroline Carmichael

Chelsea, Alabama

Second Place

(category: High School)

Bio:

Caroline Carmichael is fifteen years old and lives in Chelsea, Alabama with her family. She is one of four sisters and loves music and writing. She fell in love with writing when she wrote her first poem in the third grade, and has written many poems and short stories since. Caroline has found her music and writing to be her favorite way of expressing her love for her Creator, as well as His own incredible love for His creation.

To contact Caroline Carmichael you may request her contact information through the contest administrators by sending an email to director@athanatosministries.org.

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A Miracle At Belleau Wood

By Caroline Carmichael

Copyright 2010.  All rights reserved.

“A Miracle At Belleau Wood” is inspired by a true story of the Christmas Truce at Belleau Wood, France, during World War I. A miracle took place that night, and this fictional story explores the very heart of the soldier who started it all.

It was minutes before midnight on December 25, 1918—a night I remember better than any other. Just as a snowflake will lodge itself in the crook of a tree branch, so will this date forever remain embedded in my memory—no, not merely my memory, but into my heart and into my very soul. One could say it marks a milestone in the life of this undeserving man—a man by the name of Anasvindo, meaning “strength of God”.

That special Christmas night my blue German eyes were opened. A veil lifted. It was like that feeling one experiences when one has searched diligently for something, only to find it directly beneath his nose. It was an inspiration, a hope—a realization that not all things happen when or as expected.

Life is full of surprises—gifts presented randomly to a loved one of the Creator’s as a little reminder of His ever-present goodness and faithfulness. Every person has received one in his or her lifetime, but very few are willing to recognize it and accept it for what it is. It is love; a love that surpasses all understanding; a love that exists, but most fail to see through their blinded perception of a cruel loveless world.  I was once among the blind, but this is the story of how I received my sight.  This is the story of my miracle at Belleau Wood.

*   *   *

I hated snow. For me, snow was a dark omen. I had nearly lost my life in a blizzard when I was a small boy, and it had done me little good since.

The year was 1918, and I was nineteen years old. It had been a difficult year. Winter was approaching quickly, and I dreaded the first snowfall. Trenches were colder than the usual uncomfortable chill, and rainy days were tripled in their misery.

I sat in shock on the hard earth, my hands trembling as they struggled to place the dirt-stained letter back in its envelope. The news of my mother’s death echoed painfully in my mind, and I wept, for I had not even known that she was sick. I gloomily awaited the gentle coolness of a snowflake that was sure to rest itself on my skin as I slowly tucked the envelope into my coat pocket. To my surprise, none came. I began a fast descent into a cold emotional solitude.

As the season dragged on, I thought of nothing else but my mother. I wallowed in grief and lost all interest in the things around me. Contrary to my optimistic nature, I became hollow and silent, rarely speaking at all.  Near the end of October, I caught pneumonia.  Great, I thought, it is like my life is cascading speedily down a snow bank. So where is the dreaded snow? I looked expectantly to the sky. No snow.

By December, I hardly possessed the physical and emotional strength to lift my gun, let alone pull the trigger. I was going to die. I wanted to die. My mother had been my inspiration, my hero, and my friend. And now she was gone. What else was there to live for? I had no one. Once again, my eyes grazed the sky for the ominous flurries.

I never gave up my search for the tiny crystals. They would come. I was sure of it. They were like the tiny pieces of my world every time it fell apart. God mocked my pain through winter and cold. Every snowflake I had ever known tasted of His laugher. I glared at the sky. “Bring it on!” I would cry to the heavens, my fist trembling in challenge. “Bring on the snowflakes!”  Then I would crumble brokenly to the ground.

Unwillingly, I began to notice improvement in my health. I foolishly fought against it, too miserable to recognize any value in myself. However, as most things had been in my life, I lost the battle and was soon back on my feet.

My days were filled with explosions and gunfire, and my nights were as day as the bombs and bullets illuminated the sky. People and noise surrounded me, but I heard and felt none of it. I was lost in my own pathetic world, absently working the bolt of my gun with a practiced hand.

There were times I remember looking through my gun’s sights into the faces of the men I was fighting. Some were older and others young like myself. Each held the same expression on his face: grim…hard…determined. Fear was never deliberately displayed on their faces, for most made an effort to keep such feelings hidden. But I could see it.  Like small sparks in their eyes, it shone clear and unprotected.

If one looked closely, one could see the tremor in another man’s fingers as he worked to pull the trigger—an action he knew would likely result in another man’s death. Nobody wanted to fight. But as most unwanted things in life are, it was necessary. Looking once more into the distraught faces of the men in the opposite trench, I would lift my barrel, take careful aim, and then dejectedly fire a round into the sky before sinking back down to the ground. Would the world ever know peace again? Would I ever know peace again?

Time dragged on. I was regaining more strength each day, though my heart felt as weak as could be. My buddies struggled to lift my spirits, reminding me each day that Christmas was drawing nearer and nearer.  They were not accustomed to seeing me so melancholy. They meant well, I knew, but what was the use of celebrating a holiday dedicated to the birth of the Son of a God who cared so little about me? What was there to be celebrated? This “loving” God had abandoned His own Son upon a cross! Where was the love in that?

On the night of December 24, visions of my mother overwhelmed my dreams. In my dream, she stood by my childhood bedside, her eyes closed and her face lifted to the sky in holy worship. Her lips moved in song, but no sound could be heard. Her entire body was bathed in glorious light and a robe of pure white silk enveloped her small frame.  Behind her, a staircase of gold and pearl led through the ceiling and into the heavens above.

I watched her silently singing. She seems…different, I remember thinking. There were no signs of stress and pain on her face. Her wrinkles had been smoothed away, and an angelic smile rested gracefully on her lips. Her thin gray hair had become beautiful waves of silky silver. She looked happy…peaceful.

I stared in wonder into her uplifted face. She ceased her singing.  I watched through curious eyes. She had not looked down at me yet. Suddenly, she knelt on her knees beside my bed, and bowed her head. Her lips began to move again, this time forming words. Still, no sound came. I rubbed at my ears. Had my hearing failed me? My fingers rapped nervously on the bed frame. I sighed. How can I hear the tapping of my fingers, but not the words of my mother? Confused and hurt, I leaned forward in my bed, my ears begging for sound to fill them.

I looked helplessly at my mother. She had lifted her head and was looking earnestly into my face. Her eyebrows furrowed in concern and sorrow. She stared silently into my eyes, a look of pure grief dimming the light on her face. She was saying something, desperately searching my face. I stared back confused. She lifted her head to the heavens, her mouth moving in a desperate prayer for guidance, and then she returned her attention to me. A single tear slipped down her cheek. A dagger of pain pierced my heart. I hated watching her swim in the grief that I knew I had somehow been the cause of, for it was evident that she grieved for more than the stopping of my ears.

She was still speaking, practically imploring. I stared into her face, striving with everything within me to decipher the silent words bouncing off her lips. I analyzed every movement in her face and every glint in her eyes. But I understood none of it.

She stopped speaking and stared down at me. She shook her head sadly. Raising her head, Mother looked to the heavens. As if acting on cue from an unseen and unheard command, she nodded, took one last affectionate look at me, and then turned to ascend the stairs behind her. I pleaded and cried out through my sobs for her to stop, begging her not to leave me here alone in the cold darkness.

She turned on the third step, and then stopped. Looking straight into my eyes, she spoke, and this time I heard her.

“Listen, Anasvindo,” she said, casting a longing into my heart as she spoke my name. “Listen and believe,” turning her back to me, she continued her ascent.

She never glanced back again, her full attention fixed above her. Her eyes were closed in a familiar way as if she listened to beautiful music.

A volcano of frustration and confusion erupted within me. “Listen to what? Believe what!” I cried out brokenly. But she had already disappeared. The darkness closed in around me.

I jerked awake to a strong hand gripping my shoulder. Rubbing my eyes, I thought about the dream. Listen, she had said, listen and believe…

“Merry Christmas, Son! Get up! We don’t want you sleeping away the holiday, now do we?” a gruff voice interrupted my mingled thoughts. I looked up into the face of Sergeant Schultz.

“No, Sir,” I mumbled disoriented as I stumbled to attention. He began to walk away. Suddenly, I realized what he had just said. “Christmas?” I blinked in surprise.

Chuckling, Sergeant Schultz turned back. “Yes, private. It is Christmas. I have just returned from a discussion with the Americans. We are declaring a Christmas Truce. There is to be absolutely no firing on either side for the rest of the day. Enjoy, lad!” He walked away.

Leaning against the moist wall of earth, I closed my eyes and sank to the ground. Christmas…how had I forgotten? Beside me, my friend Frederick chuckled at my reaction as he shuffled a deck of cards in his large calloused hands. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I thought of the dream.

My mother loved to sing, I remembered with… a smile.  I paused. When had I last done one of those? A week? A month? I could not remember. I giggled. A giggle? Really? I tried it again. I giggled. I tried it again, and the giggle bubbled over into a laugh. A laugh. Baffled, I shook my head. I had just laughed.

An old familiar sensation filled my heart. For the first time in what felt like years but had merely been a couple of months, I was experiencing true happiness. I laughed again, this time harder. Soon enough tears were streaming down my face, and my empty stomach was aching with a very endurable pain. A pain called laughter. A pain called joy.

Wiping my eyes, I heard a clutter and instinctively turned toward the sound. I didn’t stop laughing. I couldn’t stop laughing. Fredrick stared at me with wide eyes, his jaw hanging low. He didn’t even bother to retrieve his scattered cards from the muddy floor of the trench. He just stared. Surprised. Shocked. Then his jaw pulled itself back into place and the corners of his mouth lifted as he joined with relief in my laughter.

We were still lost to our laughter when some of our buddies found us. We were practically collapsed on one another in our hysterics. Why were we laughing again?

They stared at us strangely. Giving up, they shook their heads. “Merry Christmas, fellows,” one muttered as they walked away.

Holding his sides, Fredrick stared at me through teary eyes, “I knew you would come through.” He slapped my back and shuffled to his feet. I stared up at him in wonder.

“What made you so sure?” I could not help asking.

“I prayed.” He said simply. “The miracles of Christmas…” he sighed, looking up into the cloudy morning sky. Shaking his head in a strange awestruck manner, he returned his attention to me. “I tell you, Anasvindo, God never was One to forget to leave a present.” He chuckled and then left me to think on his words.

Night came quickly, and the darkness was like a veil as it descended over the horizon. It was nearing midnight and we crouched silently in our trenches, cautious of any surprise attacks under the cover of darkness. Indeed it was Christmas, but none of us wished to take any chances, for the day would soon be over and the Truce brought to an end. The merriment of the day was replaced with the tension of the night, and the eerie sound of an owl triggered a chill down my spine. Not a soul moved.  I searched the sky for snow. There was none.

I forced unpleasant memories away, and focused on the faces around me. Every eye searched another’s, fear and anxiety reflected in all. I had seen the same reflection too many times in my mother’s eyes to fail to recognize it elsewhere.  Mother… I winced at her memory. She had told me to listen and believe. But listen to what? Believe what?

I thought about Fredrick’s words. “I tell you, Anasvindo,” he had said, “God never was One to forget to leave a present.” I pondered these words, and almost hesitantly, I allowed them to take a place in my heart. I thought about God, and about my past few months in cold depression. I thought of how strange it was that I had never once laid eyes on snow during this difficult chapter in my life. The many times I had thought the chapter to come to an end and the book to a close, I was surprised when the pen was picked back up.

And then I understood. It dawned on me like a sudden brightness in a darkened room: I had never been abandoned. Not even in my mother’s death. Trials in my life flashed before my eyes, and I experienced a wonderful revelation. I had been wrong— entirely blinded to the Truth. God had been there through it all, helping me along even when I could not recognize Him at work or hear His quiet “I love you’s.” I had even challenged Him, daring God to make it snow. There had been no snowfall.

I remembered my dream the night before, and a random psalm I vaguely remember from my childhood brought itself back into my memory. I could almost hear my mother’s gentle caressing voice as she softly spoke the verse over me, “You dance over me while I am unaware. You sing all around, but I never hear a sound…” I smiled, enjoying the pleasant sensation in my heart as I did so. I repeated the words inwardly. My eyes widened in understanding. “Listen,” my mother had said, “Listen and believe.” The verse! I spoke the words softly to myself, “You sing all around, but I never hear a sound.”  I lowered my head in shame. God had been singing, and I had failed to hear it.

Looking around me into the night, I saw it. I examined my life through a whole new perspective, suddenly recognizing for the first time where God had stepped in and made what had been wrong and hurtful into something that had become wonderful. How could I have been so blind, so deaf to the music of the Creator?

I stared at the winter sky. God deserved something beautiful tonight. Perhaps there was something I could do, a gift I could present…

Ignoring my buddies’ bewildered glances, I placed my gun on the frozen earth and shakily stood to my feet. Fear and doubt built up within me as I stared past the trenches and into the night. I knew I was taking a dangerous chance in doing so. Although I could not see them, I felt the icy stare of hundreds of enemy rifles pointed in my direction. Raising my head to the sky, I drew a deep breath, and began to sing.

“Silent night, Holy night,” I struggled against the tremor in my voice and then continued, adding more strength to my voice. “All is calm, all is bright…” I almost stopped in fright when an American soldier stood in his trench and faced me. Swallowing the fear and doubt, I returned my attention to heaven. I was relieved when I watched the other man’s mouth open and join in the song in his own language.

“Round young virgin, mother and Child…” we sang. Together we watched in shared wonder as one by one men on both sides across the battlefield dropped their guns and stood to their feet to join in the hymn. A gruff boisterous voice from behind me belted “Holy Infant so tender and mild.” I glanced back and smiled into the happy face of Frederick. He grinned back, a gentle understanding twinkling in his eyes.

Something cold and fragile tickled my cheek. I looked up, and immediately burst into laughter. It was snowing! I smiled at the American soldier through the heavy flakes as the singing grew louder and louder. When one verse ended, we began another.

I remember pondering the simple glory of it all. We were in the middle of perhaps the worst war in history, and yet both sides of the fight were standing in musical harmony, belting a Christmas carol into the night. I looked into each face around me. A mixture of American, German, alto, and tenor soldiers stared back at me, a smile on each of their faces.  A wave of peace and contentment washed over the battlefield, and I closed my eyes, taking it all in. I knew it was God; my heart and everything else within me shouted the truth of it.

The trees rustled with a cool breeze, and the snow made a fresh layer upon the earth, ridding the battlefield of hostile blood and replacing it with new promise. Men sang around me, their voices lifted in harmony. As I listened, the doors of my heart opened wide, and then I knew. He was singing. God was singing, and I could hear it. He was singing a song of love, a lullaby to His children on the battlefield. Opening my eyes, I lifted my voice with the others, singing back to Him with all my heart, with all my soul, and with all my mind. I believed.

Inspired by Country Music artist Garth Brook’s song “Belleau Wood”

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